


Empire of Dirt

by blacktofade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse comes and Dean can't stop it. Castiel eventually finds him wandering alone and they set off trying to fix the world and find Sam before Lucifer can ruin everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empire of Dirt

Dean was ten when he first visited the Lincoln Memorial.

He remembers standing at Abraham’s feet and looking up in wonderment that anything that big could even exist, let alone be right in front of his eyes. He remembers how he felt sorry for the statue, for it having to stay in one place and watch the same old scenery change with the seasons, while he travelled around the rest of the United States. Even at that age, he’d already been to every state at least once.

Sam had sat on the steps in the entranceway, his coat tucked tightly around him, his scarf pulled over his mouth and chin, allowing only the pink tip of his nose to show above. Sam had been bored and Dean had known because Sam hadn’t quit complaining the whole time they were there; about the cold, about the tourists, about nothing and everything. In the end, Dean had given up; he’d grabbed Sam by the arm and tugged him all the way back to the dingy motel they were staying in two blocks over.

That evening, when their dad came home, flopping into an armchair by the door, Dean couldn’t help but see Lincoln reflected in his father’s movements; the same carelessly splayed legs, the same clenched left hand, the same stony expression, like he’d seen it all a thousand times before and it was all just getting repetitive.

*

It’s twenty-four years later when he visits the statue again, but he’d give everything not to.

Abraham’s head is missing and his right leg has been snapped off at the shin. The wall behind him is scorched black, forming an inky shadow forever lurking behind the marble figure. The original quote above the statue has been cracked into indecipherable pieces, but childishly finger-painted over it in a shade of red that could well be blood is the message: _Morning awaits at the end of the world, and the world is all at our feet_. It makes Dean’s stomach roll with nausea; he doesn’t know if he’ll live long enough to see this morning, though perhaps he already has.

The ceiling has half caved in, loose chunks of concrete scattered about like die thrown in a game of chance. Two of the columns have fallen in the entranceway, where a past Sam once sat. Dean had to climb over one, fingers scrambling for purchase against the cool limestone, in order to escape the sudden flurry of ash and soot outside.

He pulls the collar of his jacket around his face to cover his nose and mouth, blinking rapidly to clear his burning eyes. He can feel the heat of the fire outside burning its way through houses and long-since abandoned cars, and there’s nothing he can do, except try to keep ahead of it, try to escape its blazing grasp. Not even the reflection pool can help him; it’s dried up, its bottom covered by a layer of autumn red leaves and pages from old flyaway newspapers, from when news actually still circulated.

There’s a flash of movement to his left that catches his attention enough that he reaches for his gun and clicks the safety off in two fluid movements. If it’s a demon, it won’t get him very far, but there’s a small part of him that whispers quietly that one of these days it might be Sam, or maybe even Castiel, however, it’s waning rapidly and he knows he’s running out of time.

His eyes dart about the area, searching for signs of life. He’s mindful of the pieces of ceiling that continue to fall down around him sporadically, and he can’t help but wish it were rain instead. It’s funny that all the world really needs is a good bit of rain. The fires would be put out and the ash in the air that continues to make breathing harder for Dean would settle enough that it wouldn’t be perpetually dark and the sun would be able to shine yellow instead of blood red.

He keeps his back to the wall, cocking his gun as quietly as he can, while he edges towards where the movement came from, moving further into the memorial temple, into the darkness, which, to Dean, is much better than the darkness outside. It’s moments like these that he wishes he still had a flashlight, however he threw his last one out in Detroit when the batteries died, the light fading slowly while he was searching for a place that he had hoped was safer than the open street.

That night, he had ended up sleeping in a bed that must have belonged to a child once because the pattern on the bed sheets was of Buzz Lightyear. The morning after was when he had truly realised the state of humanity because when he had made his way downstairs, stepping carefully over the stairs that no longer existed, he had found a mother, father, and their young boy seated around the kitchen table, slumped over their identical bowls of cereal. While searching for anything still edible, he had found a bottle of bleach sitting empty next to an open, extremely off carton of milk, and he’d shut his eyes when the horror had washed over him; he’d quietly hoped he’d never have to make a decision like that and then had left without a backwards glance.

Back in the present, Dean angrily pushes the memory away, knowing that he needs to focus on what could be lurking nearby. A quick movement to his right makes him spin and pull his gun’s trigger in surprise. A crow caws in fear, flapping its wings until it hits the ceiling above it and finds that it can’t go anywhere else. With a shaky sigh, Dean flicks the safety of his gun back into place and slips the weapon into his belt.

The bird eventually finds its way out, flying back into the hazy sky alone, heading straight up, as though it’s hoping that at some point the smoky layer above the earth will end and it’ll be able to see clearly again. Dean wishes that he had as much conviction because as it is he’s just groping blindly in the dark, but there’s no clear sky for him to aim for, just his own death awaiting him with open arms.

Dean decides to curl up behind Abraham’s statue for the night because it blocks him from immediate view and he likes to think that, even headless, it’s keeping a look out as his own eyes slide shut in utter exhaustion. In his dreams there’s no smoke or fire, just Sam and Castiel traveling with him, both being as stubborn as ever, refusing to give up, and Dean realises that’s his clear sky; that’s his reason to keep going, even though he can’t see an end.

*

A month later finds him in what’s left of New York City. At this point in the fight, he’s already searched half of the east coast for Sam or Castiel or Bobby and he’s found exactly nothing, so his main goal is to carry on. And possibly to stay alive long enough to do so. If he happens to find Lucifer along the way, it’ll be an added bonus.

He hides himself behind a warehouse on the edge of the harbour, overlooking a faint-looking Liberty Island, where the Statue of Liberty no longer stands, just a pedestal and a three hundred and something odd missing copper-woman. She’s probably resting at the bottom of the harbour, welcoming the people who sink lifelessly in the water alongside her with a broken torch and only half a crown.

The water is freezing to the touch, but Dean doesn’t remember the last time he was able to clean himself properly, so he strips and plunges feet first into the murky water. It takes his breath away, but he scrubs at his dirty face with numb fingers until everything aches with a chill. He drags himself out with shaking limbs and swipes away as much of the damp from his skin as he can before climbing back into his torn and soiled clothes. Lucky for him, most of New York is burning, in the same way every other state he passes through is, which makes it easier for him to find a way to warm up.

He finds embers and carries them into the warehouse inside a trashcan, getting a fire going with bits of a New York Times dating from a year past and bits of broken pallets. He drinks water that he’s gathered from various places in an old flask and pulls out a can of pineapple chunks he stole from a house situated just beyond Central Park. He hacks the tin open with a nearby rock and eats hungrily, licking the sugared juices off his fingers with more enthusiasm than he ever thought he would. It’s been a while since he tasted something so delicious and sweet.

Night rolls in heavily, shrouding his hiding place in fog, and he goes to sleep sitting up with the fire dwindling in front of him.

*

Waking up never gets easier; it takes a few moments for him to realise where he is, when he is, and it always hits like a two-ton truck when it all floods back to him.

His breakfast consists of a handful of Skittles and a Hershey’s bar, which he admits is better than what he’s had some mornings. His trashcan-fire has long since burnt itself out, but he’s not as cold as he thought he might be. He drinks heavily from his water bottle and decides he should collect more water to make holy before moving on again, because what else is seawater good for? He slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and makes his way to the water’s edge, feeling strangely vulnerable as he leans over, dipping bottle after bottle under the water to fill them, but there’s nothing he can do, no one to watch his back.

With one hand clinging to dirty wooden planks and the other up to the wrist in numbing coldness, he finds his reflection to be a haunting companion. His cheeks have sunken in from lack of decent nutrition and his face is unshaven in a way that is more hobo than he’d like to admit. The last time he’d shaved, he’d used his hunting knife and he’d practically shredded his face. He’s vowed to wait at least another week before torturing himself again.

He pulls his arm back and screws the cap on the last bottle, slipping it into his bag again, making a mental note to bless it before he leaves so that it’s actually useful. He washes his dusty hands off in the water and is about to sit up again when another reflection ripples up alongside his. In the blink of an eye, he spins and draws his gun out, firing a warning shot before his brain can register anything other than a vague thought of _oh hell_.

The person behind him stumbles back a step in surprise, but remains standing and it isn’t until Dean’s ears prick up at the sound of rustling coat that he starts to take in the scene. His brow furrows and he bears his teeth savagely as he raises his gun again.

“Which demon are you then?” he hisses, realising too late that if it actually _is_ a demon, his gun won’t do jack to help save him.

“Dean,” the man says, voice rough and familiar, “I am not a demon.”

“That’s exactly what I’d expect to hear from a demon in a meat-suit.”

The man’s face is set like stone and Dean almost shoots again as he reaches into his jacket and pulls something small out of the inner pocket. Dangling from a frayed string is an amulet he once lent to an angel, over a year ago.

“I thought I should return this.”

“Cas?” Dean whispers, his arm suddenly losing power, dropping his gun to his side.

Castiel nods once and that’s all Dean allows him to do before he lets his gun fall to the floor as he grabs fistfuls of Castiel’s coat and pulls him towards himself, winding his arms around Castiel’s back and holding him as though he plans on never letting go.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” Dean says into Castiel’s collar, squeezing just a little tighter than strictly necessary before he pulls back and frowns. “Would’ve been nicer if you’d popped in sometime sooner, though; I’ve been working my ass off here just to stay alive. Where were you, chilling on a cloud with the angel Brady Bunch?”

Castiel doesn’t even blink at Dean’s anger, as though he’s been expecting it all along. He holds out the amulet for Dean to take then slides his hands in his pockets. Dean, who’s rather missed the familiar weight, slips the string around his neck and hides the amulet under his shirt collar.

“What happened? Did you find God?”

Castiel shakes his head negatively. “I realised that finding God wasn’t the most efficient course of action. God will appear when the time comes, and I have enough faith to believe God’s watching over us and it’s still all just part of his plan.”

“So what do we do while we wait for God to show up?” Dean asks, because he doesn’t even know where to begin. “We try to fix this, right? Can this even _be_ fixed?”

Castiel looks at the ground before he looks Dean in the eyes. “I don’t know, but we must continue our search for Lucifer, as the plan states, and we must destroy him.”

Dean turns away, looking down the shoreline towards downtown New York, where smoke billows from half-standing skyscrapers like black ship sails.

“How do we do that? How do you kill an angel of the underworld?” Dean asks incredulously.

Castiel sighs, and to Dean it sounds a lot like he’s just as tired and exhausted as he is himself.

“I don’t know,” he says, and as his words die away, a building in the distance collapses, dragging down a portion of Dean’s hope with it.

*

In Pennsylvania, Dean slaughters a deer and roasts it slowly over a fire for an afternoon. He’s never tasted anything as good and he goes to sleep feeling sated and full for once. Castiel sits next to him and the presence alone helps Dean to drift further into slumber than he has in a long time. The comfort of someone else being there with him takes a weight off his shoulders and the familiar company makes him think of his past life. Wherever Sam is, Dean hopes he has someone, because he thinks that no one should ever go through an apocalypse completely alone. Plus, the lumbering oaf could never survive by himself.

When he wakes at dawn, Castiel is sitting in exactly the same position, watching him with soft eyes as he slowly wakes up, stretching and rubbing his sleep-numbed face.

“Morning, Cas,” he says in between wide yawns.

“I have something for you,” is all Castiel says, and Dean expects him to pass on some words of wisdom or a bible, but instead, he hands a plateful of scrambled eggs over. Dean stares in both shock and adoration at the perfectly cooked meal. “I found a farm that had chickens and borrowed a few eggs; they should not be missed.”

When Dean fails to say anything, Castiel frowns.

“Are you not pleased?”

“Yeah, Cas, this is awesome, but you don’t have to do stuff like this; I’ve got food in my bag.”

“Candy is hardly food, Dean. You need protein to keep up your strength if you are to help restore this world.”

“Thanks, Cas,” he says with more sincerity than he’d originally aimed for, not that he doesn’t appreciate the gesture, just that it’s a little strange after being alone for so long.

He takes the proffered plate more eagerly than is necessarily polite and starts scooping the eggs into his mouth with his fingers. The food tastes a thousand times better than any diner eggs he’s had in the past and he hums appreciatively, waving his eyebrows at Castiel to let him know how much he’s enjoying his breakfast.

Castiel tilts his face away, looking vaguely pleased with himself, and Dean can’t help but grin around his fingers.

“We should head south for the next few days; I’ve heard whisperings about movement in Virginia,” Castiel eventually says, breaking the silence.

Dean nods and finishes his breakfast, realising sourly that nothing good ever lasts, even if, in this case, it is only scrambled eggs; he has a feeling that next time it’ll be something bigger and more important.

*

Dean hates being right sometimes.

It starts when they’re sidetracked on their way out of the state by a mob of demons that ambush them when they pass by an old storage unit. A rusty garage door flips open and five or so men and women flock towards them, their teeth bared and eyes black. Castiel doesn’t even flinch as he raises a hand, as though to say _stop_ , and every single person drops to the floor in a heap before they can take another step.

Dean stares, slightly shocked, at Castiel before moving towards one of the slumped bodies and carefully pressing his middle and index fingers to their throat; there’s no pulse and their wide open eyes are no longer black, just a murky brown colour around unresponsive pupils. He pulls his hand away then runs it gently over their face to slide their eyelids down, closing their eyes for the last time, forever in slumber. He can feel Castiel’s gaze on him as he slowly repeats the motion with every person sprawled on the floor around him, but he doesn’t care. He stands again and moves to Castiel’s side.

“You didn’t have to kill them,” he says coldly.

“What would you rather, Dean; should I have exorcised them and made them more conscious of what they did during their possession? What I did was humane.”

“Humane? What are we talking about: people or animals?” Dean bites back, furiously.

“What’s done is done, Dean; I just saved your life, you should be grateful.”

Dean can’t help but think of the scrambled eggs from a week past. How Castiel can act so human one day and the next act like a true soldier of heaven is beyond Dean’s comprehension. It makes his head hurt just thinking about it, because how can one person be so divided? He looks sideways at Castiel’s stony face and tries to imagine a war going on inside him, but Castiel catches his stare and Dean shoots him a look of disgust before looking away.

Dean glances over his shoulder at the bodies and a hand presses against his elbow, gently urging him away. Dean doesn’t shrug it off as they continue walking; it’s a peculiar sort of comfort, in a way that makes Dean think that Castiel is silently apologising, but deep down Dean knows Castiel is right. It’s kill or be killed these days, he just doesn’t like to admit it.

“We should find a place for you to stay for the night; it won’t be light for much longer.”

The way Castiel words it sounds as though Dean will be spending another night alone and as much as he dislikes it, he doesn’t think he can reasonably ask Castiel to stay and babysit. He’s managed so far, one more night won’t hurt.

“Do you have to leave?” he asks despite his warring mind and Castiel looks at him with an expression he can’t quite read. It feels a little like Castiel might be delving into his thoughts, but he stops caring when Castiel shakes his head negatively.

“I will stay and keep watch. You need to be as rested as you can; we have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”

Dean nods and starts looking around for a safe-looking house with more interest. The calm that comes with knowing he won’t be alone makes him wish that Sam were with him now because then he’d have that feeling all the time, like the old days. He and Sam could fight anything, as long as they knew that at the end of the day they’d be back sleeping across from each other. Dean misses the late night conversation they used to have, where Dean would talk and Sam would listen and he’d eventually look over and find Sam asleep as though bored into unconsciousness, but if that were the case, Sam never once complained. If Dean ever woke in the middle of the night, he’d hear Sam’s gentle breathing, soft and even across the room, and in the end it would lull him back to sleep. He didn’t have that anymore, instead he had creaking, unfamiliar houses and the sounds of wild dogs howling in the streets outside and distant gun shots.

They end up in number forty-six, Crestview lane, which has boarded up windows, as though whoever lived in it before tried to keep the rest of the world out, however the attached garage has crumbled, and from the sidewalk, Dean can see at least two bodies buried in the rubble. Castiel informs him that it’s perfectly safe – he means completely abandoned, devoid of life – and they enter through a front door, which is blood red, literally, as Castiel sets up blood-wards and Dean goes to the kitchen to see if there’s anything worth taking. He finds a pantry full of dried fruit, but not much else.

While light still filters through the windows, Dean starts searching upstairs for blankets and pillows. He finds them tucked into a linen cupboard next to the bathroom and he carries his findings back to the ground floor, where he sets up a bed on the sofa. With a sigh, he flops back onto the cushions, kicking off his boots and removing his jacket, which actually isn’t his, rather something he took from a closet in a house in New Jersey.

Tiredness washes over him now that he’s sitting and he doesn’t even feel like rummaging in his bag for dinner, so instead he swings his legs up onto his makeshift bed and lets his eyes fall closed. After a few moments, he gets an itchy feeling, as though someone’s watching him and he opens his eyes to find Castiel sitting in an armchair across from him, wearing just his slacks, tie, and shirt – the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks like any old human, one that’s seen too much suffering in too little time.

Without saying anything, Dean rolls over, away from Castiel and lets himself drift off again, feeling safer knowing that there’s an angel at his back.

*

It feels like hours later, but judging on the way there’s still a faint tinge of light through the window at the end of the room, it’s probably only been a few minutes. He tries to figure out what woke him, and it isn’t until he really listens that he can hear faint whispering behind him. He rolls over, careful not to slip off the sofa, and finds Castiel hunched over in his seat, his eyes closed and his fingers pressed to his temples. His lips move rapidly, but whatever he’s mumbling is lost on Dean; he can’t even figure out what language it is.

“Cas?” Dean says roughly, his voice sounding as tired as he feels. Castiel twitches suddenly and sits up, opening his eyes and looking at Dean attentively. Dean feels a little awkward for interrupting, but not as much as Castiel looks for accidentally waking him.

“You mind keeping the angel hotline on mute for the night, or at least take it into another room?”

Castiel looks at the floor. “I apologise,” he says bluntly.

“It’s no biggie, just keep it down, okay?”

Castiel nods and Dean sighs, feeling a lot like he’s being a buzzkill. He pulls a pillow further under his head and tucks himself up as he prepares to fall asleep again. He’s just drifting off when Castiel speaks up again.

“Dean?” It’s whispered, like Castiel doesn’t actually want Dean to hear and wake up completely.

“Hmm?” Dean replies, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“I have to leave you for a while tonight.”

This gets Dean’s attention.

“Are you asking for my permission? You’ve never said when you were going to vanish before.”

“I did not want you to wake and wonder where I was if I happened to not be back before the morning.”

“Well, now I know,” Dean mutters, his tiredness getting the best of him, making him snarky.

“Yes, you do,” is all Castiel says before he flutters away, sending a brief wave of warm air over Dean’s body. It might just be his imagination, but Dean’s sure Castiel sounds rather tetchy himself. He hopes that whatever angelic business Castiel has been called away for isn’t too dangerous, because he’d rather his angel return whole.

*

The day after starts as usual: Castiel brings him breakfast – this morning it’s a bowl of fruit loops with milk that Dean thinks Castiel might have milked from a cow himself, it’s just that fresh – and he washes it down with a glass of water. He places his used dish and spoon in the sink, as though someone will come along after him and wash them up; it’s a force of habit, really.

He double-checks his bag, making sure he has everything, before slinging it over his shoulder; he finds Castiel already waiting to go, standing in the front hall looking even more serious than usual.

“Are you going to tell me what last night was about?” Dean asks, but Castiel only glances at him, ignoring the question completely. “Right, silent treatment as usual then? Awesome.”

Dean drops the subject, which is apparently too confidential for his measly human form, and just pulls open the front door.

They leave the safety of the house while there’s still a frost in the air, but stop dead in their tracks after only a few steps. The buildings around them as far as Dean can see in any direction have been flattened to dust. Dean turns to make sure that the house they stayed in is actually still standing, which it is, then looks at Castiel, hoping that he has an answer.  
Castiel looks concerned as he raises his right hand and shuts his eyes.

“This is very powerful work, I was not expecting this so soon,” he says, before opening his eyes again and looking at Dean with what would pass as worry, perhaps even sadness. “Get back inside the house.”

“What?” Dean says frowning, “You think I’m going to go hide? How long have you known me? I’ll stay and help with whatever this is.”

“Dean,” Castiel warns, looking over his shoulder as though he can see someone or something getting closer. The hair on the back of Dean’s neck starts prickling, like there’s an immense amount of power building around his body; it feels like the strange calm before the storm really hits, like static in the air, morphing and growing.

“Get in the house,” Castiel says, raising his voice so much that the whistling sound Dean remembers being present when Castiel once used his true voice ripples around the edges, tickling Dean’s ears enough that he has to rub them to stop the itching. Castiel shoves his hands against Dean’s chest, as though to push him a few steps backwards, but Dean doesn’t stumble, he just finds himself back inside the house they just left, looking out the living room window at the street beyond, where Castiel’s standing.

Darkness fills the sky far quicker than any normal weather change could, and Dean can tell that the wind picks up from the way Castiel’s coat ripples around his legs. Small dust devils form out of ash and Dean watches helplessly as they all zoom towards Castiel, crashing into his body and covering him in a thick layer of soot. Dean sees Castiel cough and cover his eyes before more whirlwinds collide with him.

With a loud crack that sounds almost like lightening striking the ground, Castiel lowers his head and raises his hands out to his sides, palms to the sky. In an instant, the ash settles back to the ground and a large, blinding white hole appears in the black clouds directly above Castiel. The hole gets slowly wider, pushing aside the gray and spreading pure light, and Dean’s never seen such power. How Castiel keeps it all bottled inside the vessel, he has no clue.

Behind Castiel’s back, a tall, dark form begins to materialise, and Castiel obviously doesn’t notice it. Making sure Ruby’s knife is still tucked into his belt, he runs for the front door, trying the handle, but finding that it won’t budge; Castiel has trapped him inside the house. With a cry of frustration, he runs back to the living room window and begins banging on it, calling Castiel’s name, and hoping that he’ll turn around. When Castiel fails to notice him, obviously too caught up in the power he’s trying to dispel, Dean looks around the room for objects he can use to smash the window with. He grabs a footstool and throws it with all his might, but it just bounces right off the glass with a dull _thud_. He spies a fire poker next, which he holds tightly in his hands as he swings and swings and swings into the window, but it just feels like he’s smashing it into six-inch thick plastic and it doesn’t even begin to scratch the pane.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt so hopeless. He drops the poker and pushes his palms against the window frame, resting his forehead on the cool glass.

 _Castiel_ , he thinks, _just turn around, you stubborn son of a bitch._

As though Dean screams it with all the force in his lungs, Castiel’s head rocks back and he briefly meets Dean’s eyes before he snaps his body around and directs his palms towards the darkness behind him. In the blink of an eye, Castiel crumples to the ground like whatever’s in front of him snaps him like a toothpick. He lands on his knees and shoots his hands out to stop from smashing face-first into the asphalt below.

The white clouds that had been prevailing begin to dissipate as they’re quickly swallowed up by the surrounding darkness and Dean starts thinking that, as powerful as Castiel is, he’s no match for whatever it is that’s attacking them. Dean wonders if it’s Lucifer, but he knows he’d need a vessel and wouldn’t manifest as gray smoke; it’s something dark and dangerous and completely unknown to Dean.

Dean can see Castiel struggling and resisting against the opposing power, but after a few moments, his back arches like he’s been kicked in the stomach, and he falls backwards, his head knocking forcefully into the ground. Dean wants – needs – to go and help Castiel, but there’s nothing he can do. He bangs his fists against the window continuously, checking to see if there are any weak spots, but the action just reddens his palms and bloodies his knuckles. The pain is numbed as he watches in horror as Castiel is drawn into the sky by an invisible force, and Dean can see beyond the mask of indifference Castiel always wears, that there’s a hint of fear in the way his body hangs.

Castiel jerks sharply to the right, snapping his head to the side like he’s been punched in the jaw, and he is suspended silently for a few beats; all Dean can do is watch and continue to bash at the window.

Castiel twists like he’s struggling out of someone’s grasp, but then he stops suddenly and his jaw drops open in a silent scream. There’s an explosion of bright light that burns Dean’s eyes so much that he has to look away, has to turn his face towards the floor because the flash feels like sunlight, warm against his skin, even through the window, and he hates that he enjoys the sensation. It’s been far too long since he last felt sunshine on his body.

The brightness fades and Dean pounds at the glass once more, temporarily blinded by spots before his eyes. He can’t see more than a few feet and has no idea if Castiel’s okay, but his stomach jolts as the window finally breaks, his hands slicing against broken glass, because if the force keeping him safe inside the house is failing, that can’t be good. He uses the nearby fire poker to smash out the rest of the window, until it’s safe for him to climb out and run towards Castiel. He blinks rapidly as he stops at the side of the road and tries to get his vision straight. His eyes focus on a small feather sitting by a storm-drain and he idly wonders if it’s pigeon or dove.

Dread floods his stomach as he spots another bigger feather a few inches away that would be impossible to belong to a bird. Something passes softly against his cheek, like someone running their fingertip down the side of his face and he shakes his head to escape it. A feather drifts down to the floor and it dawns on him that it was that that had touched him. Glancing about, he notices that it’s not the only one falling.

He finally looks up and finds that the sky is no longer dark and he can’t even feel a slight tinge of power in the air. Whatever just attacked Castiel has fled, which is lucky for it, because if Dean found it, he’d destroy it a thousand times over and make sure it never existed. His throat tightens with emotion as he catches sight of hundreds of feathers raining down around him, and he feels sick as he realises that the feathers, up until recently, made up Castiel’s wings, but now they’re as useless as the feathers in a down comforter.

There’s a gentle groan from the other side of the road and he rubs as his eyes as they finally clear and centre on a crumpled form a few feet away.

Castiel lies on the floor, his trench coat spread around him as a cheap imitation of the wings he used to own, with an all-too-human expression on his face. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean doesn’t want him to because he wants anything else than to pity the fallen angel.

*

It’s hard for Dean to adjust to Castiel’s new human form and he has no idea how Castiel even begins to understand everything about the different inner workings. He tries not to, but he can’t help but watch Castiel out of curiosity. In the middle of the night after Castiel’s fall, Dean catches Castiel standing shirtless, with only firelight illuminating his body in a rich orange glow. He has his back to the wall, his neck twisted as he tries to look behind him. In his half-asleep daze, Dean wonders why on earth Castiel is looking at his wings, but then he wakes up a little more as Castiel lets out a gentle hiccup that could well be a sob, and it dawns on him in one swift and shocking instant, like a blow to the head. He feels like he’s imposing on an awful private moment, but no matter how hard he tries afterwards, he can’t fall asleep again. He lies still, listening to Castiel redressing and tries to ignore the distinct sound of sniffing and hands angrily wiping at wet cheeks.

*

It gets harder: there are moments when Dean forgets Castiel’s no longer an angel, and, apparently, so does Castiel. More than once, Dean finds Castiel moving forwards to press two fingers to Dean’s forehead when he suggests they sleep; it makes his stomach drop and he has to look away to stop himself from seeing Castiel’s face fall with realisation.

Castiel snores, which is completely new to Dean, who now has to sleep in the same confines with him at night. Neither he nor Sam have ever been big snorers and the first night he spends together with Castiel as a human, Dean doesn’t sleep a wink, too preoccupied by the noises falling from Castiel’s soft, sleep-parted lips.

Castiel worries Dean most days and Dean can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that their roles switch so quickly and dramatically; he’s now the one watching over Castiel, instead of the other way around.

Some nights Castiel refuses to sleep, using the excuse that he needs to keep lookout, and no matter what Dean says, he doesn’t change his mind. He usually lasts about three days before he crashes into exhaustion and Dean feels he has to watch over him in return, just to make sure he’s okay. It takes Dean two days to convince Castiel that now he’s human he has to eat; Dean only has a couple of Heath bars and a tube of salt and vinegar Pringles, but they make do.

Once Castiel starts, it’s hard to get him to stop, like he’s been starving the entirety of when he was an angel and now he’s making up for lost time. Dean gives him a Kitkat that he was saving for his lunch, and watches him eat each stick delicately before licking his fingers to remove the melted chocolate on them.

Before the sun is even at its highest point, Dean hears Castiel’s stomach growling as they walk down a deserted dirt road that Dean hopes will lead them into a nearby town. An hour or so later, they grab more food and drink from a 7-11 and have a picnic in a nearby park, sitting in the damp grass, eating fistfuls of M&Ms – Dean insists that Castiel doesn’t try the peanut ones in case he’s allergic – and sipping warm Heineken.

Dean knows from experience that Castiel doesn’t hold his alcohol that well, and it’s no surprise when he looks over and finds Castiel sprawled on his back, smiling up at the sky with a rosy tinge on his cheeks. Three or four bottles surround him in odd places, but Dean doesn’t even remember carrying that much drink back with him; Castiel has apparently found a use for his trench coat pockets after all.

“It’s funny,” Castiel starts, sounding too much like the Castiel he met in his future and Dean realises it’s not going to be funny at all. “I was only sent to pull you from hell and tell you that God had plans for you. I was meant to show off my wings – which, apparently, were meant to convince you to see the light -- and point you in the right direction. Now look, I haven’t even got wings anymore and we’re stuck going the wrong way down a one-way street; how about that for God’s plan?” He laughs a bit too loudly, as though trying to cover up his bitterness. “Dean, want to know what that thing was that pushed me from Heaven?”

Dean doesn’t, but he says nothing, just lets Castiel get it out of his system, like a deep cleanse, that’ll maybe help Castiel to accept the human he’s become.

“That was an evil spirit controlled and sent by God; my own father attacked me and made me mortal. What I’ve done is apparently enough to condemn me to death as a human, an imperfect, hopeless human. That’s what they decided at my trial the night before I became _this thing_ , so this is what I do now: I eat nothing but sugar and drink to get drunk, and hope that it’s all enough to make life bearable.”

He lets out a harsh snort and rolls over onto his side, back towards Dean.

Dean doesn’t know what to say, at first, he’s slightly offended at Castiel’s acrimonious turn towards humans, but then he can’t help himself from feeling guilty. If he didn’t exist, Castiel wouldn’t have gone through all the pain and suffering he put up with, all for him. Dean wonders what it was that Castiel did to deserve this punishment, but he doesn’t think that any crime would fit it. He has no clue what trial Castiel ever went to, though he does remember the night Castiel left him alone for a few hours and how bitter he’d sounded before he’d left. He’d been sleeping while Castiel’s fate was debated about amongst angels, righteous-bastard angels, who were no better than demons.

An awkward silence draws out between them and Dean has no clue if he should actually say something or not, but he’s saved the trouble when Castiel begins snoring loudly. Apparently, the sugar and booze he was so angry about just puts the human Castiel to sleep.

“We’re too similar, Cas,” Dean sighs, watching Castiel curl tighter into his sleep, “all we ever do in life is try to live up to other people’s expectations, but most of the time, it’s all a crock of shit, anyway.”

He gently brushes dirt and blades of grass off Castiel’s coat, lingering a little too long on the patches where wings would sprout if Castiel still had them.

*

When Castiel wakes, the sun is just about to set and Dean rummages in his pack for Tylenol and water he knows Castiel will probably want when he comes to completely. Instead, Castiel rolls over onto his hands and knees and throws up into the grass. He wipes his mouth with the backs of his fingers and with shaking hands takes the water Dean holds out for him.

“That wasn’t pleasant,” he grumbles, but Dean guesses he must feel better because he stands and starts to gather up his empty bottles; still doing his part for the environment, Dean thinks.

“Yeah, well, that’s one of the many perks of being a human.”

Castiel offers him a small, tight-lipped smile, as if to say _great_ , but underneath, there’s a sadness that Dean wishes he could take away. He needs Castiel to understand the true plus sides to being human, but he’s not too sure himself what those things are.

*

That night, they raid a Sports Authority, where a past explosion at a gas station opposite has blown out the windows. The road between the two buildings is scorched and darker than the usual asphalt gray, and the mannequins that probably used to model trendy sports equipment in the storefront are charred and fallen like dominoes. Castiel steals a backpack and attaches a sleeping bag to the bottom – something Castiel apparently hasn’t counted on is how cold it is at night, now that he’s human.

Right in the middle of the store, Castiel undresses, as though he has no true understanding of modesty, stripping down to his underwear, then slowly he searches for new clothes. He picks out a pair of loose-fitting jeans, a thermal shirt, and a thin coat, one that has at least seven pockets and a fleecy inside that he can wear under his trenchcoat. He swaps his brogues for a pair of black Nikes and steals enough pairs of socks to last him until the next apocalypse.

Dean gives him one of the few guns he has and hopes like hell that he knows how to use it.

Between the fishing aisle and the hunting section, Dean spots a teenager stalking them from across the store. Even from a distance Dean can see the black eyes and he tells Castiel to go grab himself some energy drinks from the broken refrigerators near the entrance, sending him away from the demon he has no idea exists. He crouches down behind a table covered in different plastic fishing baits and waits.

It isn’t long before the demon throws itself over the top and Dean has to roll away, drawing Ruby’s knife from his belt as he does so. He feels sick as he tackles the kid to the ground and shoves the blade up to the hilt into his chest, and out of respect, he covers the body with a blue poncho that’s meant for some fifty year-old fisherman to wear on a rainy day when the fish just won’t bite. He wipes the knife’s blade off on a pair of sweats hanging on a rack as he heads to the front of the store to find Castiel, but keeps it in his hand because he won’t take any chances.

The coast appears to be clear and Castiel waits for him by the jammed-open automatic doors.

“What was that?” he asks as Dean slips the knife away and steals a Cliff bar from a nearby rack. With his mouthful of food, Dean shrugs as if unfazed, though his heart thumps madly and the taste of bile overpowers the grain across his tongue.

“Some guy wanted to know where the fishing rods were. Don’t worry, he found them.”

Castiel eventually follows after Dean is a good ten steps ahead, seeming to finally understand.

“I’m sure he’s thankful,” he mutters before falling silent. Dean doesn’t reply, has no idea what to say to that.

*

“How do you do it?” Castiel asks him that night while seated around a small fire, roasting bits of pigeon.

Dean sets his half-eaten bird down and licks his fingers. “Do what?”

When Castiel looks up at him, the flames from the fire are reflected in his eyes, flickering like an old television, and it makes Dean think of hell and dying and everything that’s making the world fall apart.

“How do you feel so much? Humans have to feel suffering and pain and loss; how do you survive?”

Dean’s brow furrows because being human is new to Castiel, but he doesn’t know what to tell him because he’s never not been human, he’s dealt with feelings his whole entire life. If Castiel thinks Dean knows some profound secret way to cope with emotions, he’s going to be let down, because all Dean can think about is getting drunk and sleeping with people.

“It’s not all about pain and suffering, Cas, that’s why we have family, even if they can be a pain in the ass sometimes. We have relationships and one-night-stands and alcohol and drugs and every other different type of way to get through the rough patches. Everyone uses a different method, some are more destructive than others, but that’s how we deal with life.”

“How do _you_ do it, Dean? You have no more family around you and there’s hardly anyone left to be together with, so how do you make yourself wake up in the mornings?”

Dean’s slightly angry that Castiel is questioning his reasons for living, pointing out everything he doesn’t have any more; he doesn’t need reminding.

“Hope, Cas, hope.”

It’s a bullshit answer, but he goes back to eating and Castiel goes back to staring at the fire.

“Do you think love is enough?”

Dean starts, but tries not to show it.

“I think it could help,” he says cautiously, because he doesn’t know where this conversation is going.

“Do you think it’s worth losing everything for?”

Dean regards him carefully.

“Sometimes,” he says, and Castiel nods, as though he agrees, but Dean almost scoffs at the idea of Castiel losing everything because of love. Who on earth would Castiel fall in love with, he only knows one or two people – but then it dawns on him, knocks him right in the head like a two-by-four, and Dean looks at Castiel with more clarity than he’s ever had before as everything slides into place.

Castiel has fallen for him, in more than one way.

*

Castiel doesn’t act any differently towards him and Dean almost convinces himself that he’s jumped to conclusions, but then he realises that the only reason Castiel doesn’t change is because everything he’s been doing since day one has been out of love anyway; he has no reason to change. Falling for Dean is the instance that replays in Dean’s mind in a continuous loop, but then he thinks back on the smaller moments, like when Castiel would bring him breakfast to make sure he was eating enough, and when Castiel watched over him while he slept. Even more prominent were all the times Castiel saved his ass from being kicked, or worse, killed.

Dean has been so blind, but to be fair, he’s been a little distracted lately.

*

Dean knows they’re irrevocably lost, he’s positive they’ve passed the same crumbling high-rise at least twice before, but if Castiel notices, he doesn’t say a thing. Eventually, he steps through the broken window of a gas station and finds maps sprawled across the floor like cheap carpet. Many are ripped, others burned at the edges, but there’s one left in the rack looking as pristine as if God put it there himself. Dean tugs it free and folds it out, gently nudging Castiel with his elbow to urge him to take one side while he pulls the other, spreading it between them.

“Right,” Dean starts, glancing about. “Where are we?”

“Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,” Castiel says suddenly and Dean stares as though he’s sprouted a second head. “I’ve been here before, though it didn’t look like this last time.”

“You didn’t think to mention it about three hours ago?”

“You didn’t say you were lost.”

Dean blinks and wonders how they’ve ended up sounding like an old married couple bickering about asking for directions.

“Great,” he says instead, “how do we get out of here?”

Castiel shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

The edge of the map crumples in Dean’s fist and he clenches it tightly, exasperation bubbling below his skin. He takes a calming breath and traces a finger over the paper, eventually finding a road that will take them away from the city and what surprises it may hold.

“What do you think?”

“I can’t see; your finger is in the way.”

He says it so honestly it drives Dean half mad and he lets go of the map, allowing it to swing in Castiel’s lone grasp.

“We’re leaving,” he says, grabbing a bag of sunflower seeds as he passes and tossing a handful of quarters onto the counter by the empty register. Castiel folds the map quietly and slips it into his pocket, catching the packet Dean throws towards him. By the time Dean spits out the last shell, his anger has calmed and there are more open fields than buildings around them, but then Castiel opens his mouth.

“Just say if you need the map. I have it with me.”

Dean picks his teeth to stop from strangling the only person he has for company and takes a deep breath.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says, hiding his expression as he glances over the hedge at an old farmhouse.

Castiel touches his elbow gently, fingers running down the sleeve of his jacket, apparently not catching the frustration in Dean’s tone.

“You’re welcome.”

*

It rains, for the first time in months, a heavy rain where the raindrops are the size of quarters and drench everything in under a few seconds of them starting to fall.

They decide to stay in a small, two-bedroom house until the storm passes and Castiel seats himself in front of the fireplace, hacking up wooden chairs to feed the flames with with an axe he found in the garage. Dean goes outside because he hasn’t seen rain in far too long and he’s willing to admit that he’s actually missed it, missed the way it smells and the way it keeps falling, no matter what. He shuts his eyes and turns his face up to the sky, revelling in the feeling of raindrops splashing gently onto his skin, slicking his hair to his head, and washing his clothes clean, slowly but surely. He lets the rain carry away the grime as he listens to the pitter-patter of water hitting against the roofs of houses and the underbellies of overturned cars.

He imagines the fires, the ones that have been burning for months and filling the sky with smoke and ash, and pictures them all dying out, suffocating into naught but glowing embers, then nothing at all. It dawns on Dean that they should put out buckets while they can to catch the rain because there will never be enough water; sometimes the sugary fizz of Pepsi drives him half crazy with want for something fresh and unsweetened. He runs inside, wiping water from his cheeks and forehead, and rummages through the kitchen for mixing bowls and tupperware containers and pots and measuring cups – anything that will hold any amount of water. With his arms full, he goes back outside and sets his findings in a line, bordering the pathway that leads from the sidewalk to the front door.

He stays outside until most of them are full, then begins to take them in, one by one. It can’t be more than early afternoon, but the dark sky makes it feel as though night has arrived early.

He seats himself on a small green porch swing and rocks backwards and forwards in time to an unidentifiable beat in his head. He knows there are demons and a devil and angels and maybe even a god out beyond the land he can see, but for now, he just wants a break. He wants to sleep soundly for once, rather than wake up every five minutes because he’s waiting for the moment they’re rumbled from their hiding place and demons zap the life out of them. He wants to see Sam again and give Castiel his wings back and stick the world back together again with half a roll of duct tape and a wad of gum, and it all just seems so impossible, but the rain makes him think that he might have a chance to do one of those things before he dies. The rain is new life and a way to wash away the dirt on old life, and it just keeps on falling, as though Mother Nature really does want to help.

After a few more minutes of peace and quiet, the wind picks up and a chill starts to blow through Dean’s bones. He stands, looks into the sky one last time, then heads inside the house.

He finds Castiel sitting on the sofa, reading a book titled _Alas, Babylon_. The cover is well worn and Castiel seems to be engrossed, enough that Dean doesn’t feel at all ashamed as he sheds his wet shirt, folding it and placing it in front of the fire to dry. He unties his boots, slipping them off along with his socks before unfastening his pants and shucking them down his goose-pimpled legs. He lingers on his boxer-briefs, debating internally whether he should remove those, too; it would make sense, but Dean compromises by kneeling, sitting on his heels, facing towards the flames, and letting them dry while still on his shivering body.

The fire warms him and dries his face and hair in a matter of minutes. He notices an object amongst the flames that doesn’t resemble any part of a wooden chair and realises that Castiel has thrown some books onto the fire to stoke it, as well. Apparently, as Castiel is now reading, he was sidetracked along the way. He grins to himself and tries to look over his shoulder discreetly at Castiel, however, he finds Castiel already staring at him. The book is still upright in Castiel’s long, slender fingers that grip loosely at the edges, but Castiel’s no longer paying it any attention, his focus too busy centred on Dean.

Dean doesn’t know how to react, but doesn’t risk saying anything for fear of it turning to some kind of feelings-talk. He turns back towards the fire and hopes that Castiel will just return to his book.

“Was the rain nice?”

“It was rain,” Dean responds, as though it’s the most obvious thing ever and Castiel should already know it.

“Rain is encouraging; it means that the earth is trying to heal itself. It is the beginning of the end.”

For a second, Dean forgets Castiel is no longer an angel; he just sounds so similar to the old Castiel and his heart jolts in protest at the emotion that washes over him. It finally dawns on him that even though Castiel has fallen, the same spirit and soul exists inside the vessel; the skin and bones are just a front, because Castiel the angel is still very much alive, just lacking a few angelic qualities.

“I guess that’s good news, huh? Better than raining fire, I suppose.”

They both fall silent for a few minutes and Dean can’t even hear the rustling of pages of Castiel’s book, which probably means he’s still not paying it any attention.

In a moment of weakness, or exhaustion, or any other feeble excuse Dean can come up with, he blurts out, “If we make it out of this alive, be sure to remind me to thank the big guy upstairs.

“ _When_ we make it out of this alive, Dean,” Castiel replies and it’s said so confidently that Dean feels it seeping under his skin and warming his body, more than any fire ever could. Life will carry on and for the first time in a long while, Dean thinks that together, he and Castiel can help point it in the right direction.

“Sure, _Sam_ ,” he retorts, but turns to grin at him as though the ache in his chest isn’t there. Castiel folds over the corner of the page he’s just read and closes the book, setting it on the seat next to him, before rising and moving to kneel beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders brush, warm cotton against heated skin.

Dean shifts, untucking his legs because his feet are starting to fall asleep, and, in what Dean sees as a rather frantic action, Castiel shoots a hand out, wrapping his fingers tightly around Dean’s upper arm.

“Cas,” he starts, more out of shock, “I’m not going anywhere,” and Dean doesn’t know if he means it only for this moment. Dean moves to sit cross-legged instead, but Castiel doesn’t let go.

He glances down briefly at Castiel’s hand and can’t help but wonder how Castiel feels while he’s touching him. Dean remembers when he was fifteen and he had a crush on a girl called Lucy Gardner, and every time their hands brushed together – whether it was when Lucy handed him her spare pencil because he didn’t have anything to write his _what I did over summer_ essay with, or when she touched him on the arm to get his attention – he’d feel as though a thousand, million volts of electricity had rushed through his body and left him flailing to stay conscious. Castiel looks as though nothing has changed though, just has slightly wider eyes, but nothing really telltale.

Without thinking, he moves his hand to rest on Castiel’s knee, casually reassuring him, and this time, _Castiel_ is the one glancing down at _Dean’s_ hand. When Castiel looks back up at him with an expression Dean can’t quite read, he pulls his hand back like Castiel’s leg is burning him; the look morphs as Dean moves away – perhaps into disappointment, perhaps relief – but Castiel just lets go of Dean’s arm in response and Dean thinks he might have possibly just mirrored Castiel’s look at the feeling of loss.

“I dream, Dean,” Castiel says, taking Dean by surprise. Dean hadn’t really thought about it, but he guesses that angels don’t sleep, and thus, never dream. Dean has no clue what it must be like for Castiel to suddenly be pummelled by imaginary moments sent from his subconscious, after living without them for multiple eternities past. “Are they meant to contain only violence and desire?”

It’s not really a conversation Dean wants to be having. It’s like the time he had to give the sex talk to Sam, which involved a banana and some rather awkward hand gestures, but luckily there’s no fruit around and Castiel seems like he just needs an answer to help himself understand his human nature.

“I’m no Sigmund Freud,” Castiel’s blank stare hints that the reference is lost on him, “but some people see dreams as outlets for their unconscious desires. If they hate their boss, they’ll dream about punching the dickhead in the face in front of their co-workers, or if they want to have sex with Angelina Jolie, they do it. Possibly in front of Brad Pitt, but I don’t know what you’re into.”

“Is it okay to dream those dreams?”

“Course, Cas, it’s not like you can help it.”

Castiel looks momentarily ashamed, but he apparently hasn’t quite got the hang of self-restraint, because he turns to look at Dean and says, “I dream about you,” as though it’s not the most awkward thing he’s ever said. He even makes it seem slightly dirty, which shocks Dean, more because Dean is pummelled with images of Castiel sweaty and asleep, dreaming of Dean doing filthy, and only just consensual, things to him. Dean shakes his head slightly and tries not to make eye contact with Castiel for a few moments while he regains composure.

“It happens to the best of us,” he says, trying his hardest to avoid the subject.

“I kiss you, Dean, and I like it.” Castiel goes quiet beside him, before mumbling something so gently that Dean almost misses it completely. “When I wake up, I wish it was all real.”

Dean holds his hands up in front of himself, an exaggerated look of shock on his face.

“Hold up, Speedy Gonzales. How about a date first?”

“It was a dream, Dean. You said we cannot help what we dream about.”

“Course not, but we can _definitely_ control how much we tell each other after, Mr TMI.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t – ”

“Look, forget it, I’ll give you a get-out-of-jail-free card for this time, so tomorrow don’t be telling me you had a dream about jerking Uriel off or one about having a bit of S and M bonding time with Michael.”

Quietly, Castiel reaches over and tosses another log onto the fire, as though taking the time to think and Dean braces himself for the awkwardness he knows is about to slip out of Castiel’s mouth.

“I don’t think about anyone else as I do you, Dean.”

Dean throws his head back in mock-exasperation and clicks his tongue loudly.

“I really need to teach you what’s socially acceptable and what’s not because it’s unreal. You’re almost as bad as Sam around girls.”

Castiel thins his lips, remaining silent, but it’s still so obvious to see that he’s thinking hard about something.

“Who do you dream about?” he eventually asks and Dean hides his wince by ducking his head and laughing.

“That would be in the unacceptable column.”

“But you _must_ dream.”

“Yeah, about ending the apocalypse and sending Lucifer back to hell.”

Castiel tilts his head slightly, but doesn’t say anything, just leaves it at that.

Eventually, Dean’s legs fall completely asleep and he shifts, beginning to stand before Castiel places a steady hand on his arm and says, “You said you wouldn’t go anywhere, Dean,” as though he’s five and Dean’s promised him ice cream.

“Right,” he replies after a pause before letting out a long sigh. He flops back to the floor, pushing his legs out in front of him and wriggling his toes against the wall of heat in front of them. “What were you reading?” he asks to make idle talk.

Castiel tangles his fingers together and doesn’t look away from the fire.

“It was about people in a situation a lot like ours.”

“And? Did it seem like they were going to survive?”

Castiel shrugs and glances over at him.

“I didn’t get that far, but I suppose they had a fighting chance. Everyone does.”

Dean reaches behind and pulls a cushion off the sofa, tucking it behind his head as he lies flat, hands on his stomach.

“At least we’ll go down swinging then,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes and letting the exhaustion wash over him alongside the warmth of the room.

He wonders if the conversation is completely over, but he’s already falling into a doze and Cas is blessedly silent beside him. He’s almost drifting off when he feels soft fabric tickling the outside of his knee and briefly opens his eyes, glancing down and finding Castiel much closer, his pants rubbing against his skin gently. He hums tiredly, but doesn’t complain and Castiel slowly looks over his shoulder at him, as though trying to gauge his reaction.

He shifts one last time, making himself comfortable on the hard floor without moving away from Castiel’s comforting body heat, before he finally falls asleep and leaves Castiel to his awkward thoughts.

*

He wakes in what must be in the middle of the night because the room is dark except for the glowing embers of the fire illuminating it in a soft orange colour. The first thing he notices is how cold he is; the second thing is that Castiel’s still sitting up next to him, still watching the burnt logs shift against each other in the grate.

He mumbles soft vowels, tongue still half-asleep, before he clears his throat gently and tries again.

“You okay, Cas?”

Castiel jerks as though taken by surprise, eyes wide and mouth slack. Before Dean can blink, his composure is back and he almost believes he imagined it all.

“I can’t say,” he replies and Dean sits up on his elbows.

“Can you sense something?”

“No, Dean,” he says quietly. “It is something you said I cannot speak of, something unacceptable.”

Dean flops back again and lets out a groan.

“C’mon, Cas, I didn’t mean it like that. If there’s a problem, tell me. I’ve spent far too many years listening to Sam’s pissy silence and it’s worse than the dirtiest of dreams you can imagine up.”

Castiel remains silent for a long minute before Dean finally nudges him with an elbow.

“I dreamed of you again. You were as you are now,” he begins slowly, carefully. “The fire was still burning and you were not sleeping, but spread out upon the floor and I – ” he cuts himself off and Dean thinks it’s for the best because there’s no way he can sit through a session of casual dirty talk from Castiel in his this-is-a-serious-conversation voice. “You made no complaint,” he begins again and Dean curses his luck, flinging an arm over his face, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow. “You let me touch you.”

Dean lets out a shaky sigh and he doesn’t know if it’s from laughter or nervousness over what Castiel is about to say. It startles him when fingertips gently press into the skin of his chest, right between his nipples, and he slides his arm off of his face to stare at Castiel incredulously.

“This isn’t show and tell, Cas,” he says quickly, but Castiel only flicks his gaze up briefly, meeting Dean’s gaze for just a moment, his hand still upon Dean’s chest, fingers spread wide, pressing individual points of heat against his body.

“But you said to admit my problem and this is it, Dean.”

“What, that you can’t follow instructions?”

Castiel really looks at him this time when he lifts his head and Dean has the distinct impression it’s all about to go A over T.

“That I want to touch you.”

Dean had been afraid he’d say that.

“Cas, I’m flattered, but don’t you think you have really terrible timing to announce this now?”

“When else am I meant to tell you when tomorrow could be our last day?”

“Glad one of us is still optimistic then.”

Castiel’s hand slides as he turns, palm running flat over Dean’s nipple, fingers digging into his side.

“I thought this is what you’d do, Dean. You run headfirst into half-formed plans and hope they work all the time; I was just doing the same.”

Dean sighs and Castiel’s grip loosens slightly.

“How far did you get with your plan, huh?”

“A lot further than this,” Castiel murmurs after a long pause and Dean tries his best not to picture what Cas imagined he’d do to Dean. He fails spectacularly. “But I heard your thoughts before I fell and some of them were about me and they were definitely not socially acceptable, as you say.”

“You spied on me?”

Castiel does momentarily look ashamed, but then his expression hardens, lips thin and forehead pinched.

“Sometimes it was hard to ignore them; I never did it on purpose without your permission.” Dean harrumphs quietly, but keeps quiet. “Do you not want it any longer?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it, I just think there are better times than right smack-bang in the middle of an apocalypse to tell someone you want to bump uglies with them.”

At the admission, Castiel’s hand moves again, this time sliding down Dean’s body, resting low on his stomach, little finger hooking just under the elastic waistband of his boxers. Dean wants to bat his arm away, he really does, but he’s been caught hook, line, and sinker, and he wonders briefly is that’s what smugness looks like on Castiel’s face.

“There probably are better times,” Castiel says, fingertips rubbing distracting circles over his skin. “But I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“You know what I want now?”

“Dean, I’ve been around long enough to know that you hate an apple pie lifestyle. I pulled your soul from hell after it was tortured almost beyond recognition. I think the last thing you want, the last thing you need is normalcy.”

Castiel leans over him, resting on one elbow as he drums his fingers against Dean’s stomach as though contemplating his next move.

“Thought you said you had a plan, Batman.”

Castiel looks momentarily lost at the reference, but then hums quietly in response to Dean’s words.

“I did – I do. I’m just thinking about where I should start off from.”

“Well, if I remember correctly, you were telling me about a dream you had.”

Castiel stares down at him and Dean sees the exact moment his brain realises it’s the closest thing it’s going to get to an invitation, before Castiel leans in, their mouths meeting soft and unsure just once before he pulls back again.

“Was that part of your dream?” Dean asks, tension flexing under the words, threatening to snap. “Because you didn’t mention anything about kissing.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just tilts his head down – or maybe he pulls Dean up to him, but Dean has no clue, because Castiel is stroking his hip and kissing him again, mouth strong and insistent against his own.

“I’ll just pretend you already know,” Cas says during the next break for air and then doesn’t say much after that, apparently too intent on making sure every detail of the plan in his mind is right as he tilts Dean’s head with a gentle press and kisses as though he almost knows what he’s doing. He seems to second guess himself halfway through though as his lips turn slow and tentative, silently asking if he’s doing it right and Dean grazes his tongue with his teeth and hums quiet appreciation into his mouth.

Castiel’s thumb slides once more against the skin over his hip and it feels like he’s trying to press his fingerprints into his bones and it aches and bruises and it’s precisely what he needs, just as Castiel said. Castiel shifts, slipping a leg over Dean’s waist as he straddles his thighs and sits warmly, pressure firm and even against his skin. The hand that suddenly pushes through the slit of his boxers and wraps around his cock is about as expected as Lucifer popping in for Sunday dinner, and he lets out a groan that rumbles through his chest and down to his stomach.

“Christ,” he whispers, his own hands resting just above Castiel’s knees, fingers digging in sharply with every flick of Cas’ wrist. “Or am I not allowed to say that these days?”

“Maybe God will finally listen if you say it enough.”

Dean pauses, meeting Castiel’s eyes before letting out a bark of laughter.

“That’s one hell of a sense of humour you’ve got yourself,” he says, rolling into Castiel’s touches. “And one hell of a grip.”

Castiel quickens his strokes, hand twisting, fingers pushing firmly against the ridge of his cock and Dean can hardly breathe with the intensity. Castiel’s other hand smoothes over his thigh, nails dragging lines down his skin and drawing quiet hisses from Dean. Castiel watches him with a steady gaze, altering his grasp and speed to fit Dean’s reactions, before he leans in close to Dean’s face, nose nudging through his hair.

“Tell me you want this,” Castiel mutters into his ear and Dean almost bucks him right off of his waist.

“Damn, Cas,” he breathes, chest heaving. “I want this.”

Castiel kisses him, mouth still not entirely confident, but enthusiastic nonetheless and seems willing enough to let Dean abuse it with his tongue and teeth, which is perfectly okay in Dean’s book. Cas’ stubble scrapes his face raw, but Dean doesn’t stop, his heightened senses leading him blindly down a one-way street as he tumbles towards the ultimate bliss.

“All right – ” he starts, but chokes himself off as Castiel’s fingers briefly press against his balls. “Colour me intrigued; what else did you do to me in your dream?”

Castiel continues touching him, silence hanging over them until Dean’s breathing hard and only just holding himself back.

“I made you come,” he says quietly and the noise Dean lets out is entirely undignified.

“Holy shit,” he says, thrusting up into Castiel’s hand and coming as though sucker-punched in the stomach with pleasure.

Castiel strokes him through it, palm warm and slick, until Dean’s come begins to cool and turns sticky and there’s hardly any breath left inside him. He stills Castiel’s hand by curling tired fingers around his wrist, pulling just hard enough that he loses his balance and only just catches himself before his whole weight lands on Dean’s chest. He can feel each of Cas’ shirt buttons pressing into his skin and Castiel’s mouth turns soft and lazy against his own.

“What about you?” he asks between kisses, Castiel apparently unable to stop now that he’s started, not that Dean’s putting up much of a fight. Castiel’s mouth falters and he sits back, clearing his throat and looking rather embarrassed.

“I already – ”

Dean gapes, eyes darting to Castiel’s groin, but he can’t figure out if the darkness on his pants is shadows or dampness.

“Christ.”

His head falls back to the pillow and when he lets go of Castiel’s knees, he finally clambers off him, stretching out beside him, leaning once more on one elbow. The silence stretches between them as Dean finally regains his senses and his mind starts working overtime without his permission.

“Cas?” he begins and Castiel hums quietly in response. “In all honesty,” he says, scratching awkwardly at his chest, “this should probably stay as a one-time deal, at least for now. You could be used as leverage against me if demons catch you.”

Castiel turns his head slowly and blinks.

“They’ll use me as leverage against you whether or not we sleep together.”

He brushes Castiel’s hair out of his face and says nothing, before eventually rolling over onto his side, back to the fallen angel, though he’s unable to ignore the pressing heat of his body and the arm that casually winds its way over his hip.

*

His resolve lasts a total of three days before Dean wakes in the night as the other side of the bed he’s sleeping in dips down with added weight; he freezes and holds his breath when the blankets move and another body slips under them. A sudden spread of heat washes over his back and a hand runs gently up his side, as though trying not to wake him, until it curls around his chest and knees fold up into the gap behind Dean’s own bent legs. Dean’s never really liked snuggling in bed, he thinks it gets too hot, too fast, but the last time he really remembers spooning with anyone was a few years back and Dean’s pretty sure the rules have changed since then, at least since the world started falling apart.

Even though it gives away that he’s not exactly sleeping, he lifts his head and looks over, finding Castiel’s face near his own, his features soft in the darkness. Castiel’s eyes are shut and it’s far too easy for him to roll over, pressing his chest against Castiel’s, one of his knees slipping between his pliant legs. He pushes his nose into the curve of Castiel’s shoulder and pretends that he doesn’t feel the shudder that runs through Castiel’s body as he breathes against his skin.

Tentatively, hoping Castiel doesn’t expect him to have a stronger resolve, he parts his lips and runs them gently over Castiel’s throat in a soft, sleepy kiss. He feels Castiel’s chest rumble against his own as he lets out a hitched breath that sounds a lot like a moan that’s pushing its way out, whether Castiel likes it or not. With a warm, wet tongue, he traces over Castiel’s adam’s apple, sucking gently and eliciting another soft groan.

One of Castiel’s hands moves to his hip and the waistband of his boxers, fingers dipping underneath, brushing against warm, tender skin, and just like that, Dean starts growing hard against Castiel’s thigh. It wasn’t meant to happen again, but now that it is, he can’t bring himself to stop; it’s like a landslide hurtling down the side of a mountain with no way of being held back. Castiel rocks their hips together as Dean bites bruises into the skin along his shoulders. The taste under his mouth is everything he expects, all smoke and sweat, and he can’t get enough of the flavour that’s entirely Castiel.

“Cas,” he hisses against a firm collarbone as their cocks rub together though thin underwear. Dean slips his gently shaking hands down to Castiel’s own boxers and before he can think too hard about it, he pushes them down his thighs, as far as he can reach, then slides his fingers up to wrap around Castiel’s erection, feeling him harden fully in his hand. The noise Castiel lets out sounds so broken that Dean almost stops stroking him, but then his free hand comes up to join Dean’s and together they begin to jerk Castiel off.

Castiel’s hand is hot and steady around his own and every twist and squeeze draws a sigh from Castiel’s mouth and a buck from Castiel’s hips. It doesn’t feel at all like Castiel is more in control, like he knows what he’s doing now, but Dean’s okay with that, as long as Cas is, and he doesn’t seem to be protesting at all.

Castiel speeds his hand up, gasping hot, wet little breaths against the skin of Dean’s neck, but then suddenly pulls away, dragging Dean’s arm with him. With sticky palms, Castiel pushes against Dean’s shoulders until he gives and rolls onto his back. Under the covers, Castiel fully removes his own boxers, then divests Dean of his, too, before carefully climbing into Dean’s lap, straddling his waist and leaning over his torso, mouth hovering barely an inch above Dean’s own.

“I couldn’t wait for you to make up your mind. I know how stubborn you can be,” he murmurs as though it explains everything and Dean just pulls him down until there’s no empty space between their two bodies.

Dean rolls against Castiel, and Castiel bites his lip, the inside of Dean’s mouth muffling his groan. Dean’s hands find their way to Castiel’s hips, which are firm and prominent, clearly from a lack of proper nutrition, beneath his fingers, and he presses harder to encourage Castiel to rock faster. Their bodies start to slide together, the sweat building up between them, the skin of their stomachs rubbing easily together, and it’s hard for Dean to keep his hands on Castiel. His palms slip against softness and he finds himself digging his nails in to keep his hands anchored; Castiel hisses, but Dean doesn’t loosen his grip.

Dean can feel the pleasure building low in his belly and he hopes that Castiel is just as close because he knows he won’t be able to keep it up much longer.

Castiel pulls away from his mouth, leaving Dean with wet lips that cool fast, like they’ve been covered with pure alcohol, and arches his spine, pushing his hips forward and shoulders back. Dean appreciates the sight of Castiel, all ivory skin and tense muscles, writhing in his lap, and the change in position rubs them closer together. He watches with half-closed eyes as Castiel groans and babbles words about needing and wanting, but he can’t find enough strength inside him to answer.

Castiel grinds down, once, twice, and Dean is done, coming between their bodies with more force than he can ever remember; everything he’s kept pent up over the past few days spills out of him in a rush and he finds he can’t quite catch his breath after. Castiel keeps moving, sliding easily now with Dean’s come slicking between their legs, and slowly, he begins to curl in on himself, until all Dean can see is the top of Castiel’s head and Castiel mouths at his chest, but then he shudders and more warmth spreads between them.

Dean pries a hand off Castiel’s hip, and even though his arm is heavy with exhaustion, he curls it around Castiel’s back and rubs soothingly. He wasn’t sure to begin with, but now he’s definitely glad Castiel finally took the step he couldn’t bring himself to make, and he hopes Castiel knows it, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

After a moment, Castiel unfurls and blinks blearily down at him. Dean huffs a small breath of laughter at the sight of Castiel so ruffled, so soft looking, and tightens his arm to make Castiel lower himself onto his chest. They gently shift, until Castiel slips into the space next to Dean, one thigh still splayed over both of Dean’s and his head tucked against Dean’s neck. Dean can’t even bring himself to disturb their comfortable position by getting something to wash them off with, just hums contentedly in the back of his throat and pushes closer to Castiel, even though he’s about as close to him as he can get, without actually wearing him like a vessel.

The thought makes Dean’s stomach roll uncomfortably; he doesn’t need to think about the world outside their hiding place, because they usually end up in Dean’s nightmares anyway. However, with Castiel gripping his side tightly, Dean thinks tonight he may sleep soundly for the first time in a long while, so he shuts his eyes and does just that.

*

The chances of it happening are, Dean knows, less than one in a million, but he’s so glad it does. They come across Bobby in a town so small, if Dean looks down Main Street, he can see the beginning and end of its limits clearly. Bobby almost blows Dean away with two pumps of his shotgun, but Dean’s lucky because they miss and ricochet away: one off a flickering streetlight, and the other off a mailbox.

“Dammit, Bobby, it’s me!” Dean yells across the road, but another shell sails his way and he only just ducks in time for it to rocket over his head and shatter the shop window behind his back into a thousand pieces.

“Bobby, it’s him!” Castiel tries, which finally gets Bobby to stop shooting.

“Castiel? That you?” comes the reply before Bobby comes into sight, his gun still poised. He slowly walks towards them, keeping his shotgun trained on them as he crosses the street. When he’s a few yards away from them, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a silver flask, engraved with what is probably some sort of anti-demon symbol – Dean’s never seen it before, but it looks complex.

“Drink up, boys,” Bobby says, handing it over, and Dean knows that it’s holy water inside before he even drinks. Neither he nor Castiel burn or fizz, and Bobby visibly relaxes, finally lowering his gun and flicking the safety on.

“God, it’s good to see you, Dean.” He grabs a handful of Dean’s shirt collar and pulls him into a bear hug that steals the air from Dean’s lungs, it’s just that powerful. Bobby finally lets him go after a few minutes, then turns to Castiel, slapping him soundly on the shoulder and smiling at him. “Good to see you, too, Castiel; I hope this idjit hasn’t been causing too much trouble for you. With him, some days are just like babysitting a four year old.”

Dean grunts in protest, though his heart really isn’t in it, because, honestly, he’s missed Bobby being there to call him a moron and slap him upside the head when he does something stupid.

Castiel smiles back at Bobby, in a way that is much too casual, much too human, one which Dean knows he’s been practicing for some time now.

Apparently, Bobby catches it because he shoots Dean a look that says he suspects something’s up, and that Dean has a hell of a lot of explaining to do later.

*

Bobby leads them to a house at the end of town with a long winding driveway and trees in the front yard.

They go around to the backdoor – Bobby mumbles something about the front door, but Dean only catches the words tripwire and explosives, but that’s enough – and enter after Bobby knocks some kind of morse code onto the wood panel and it unlocks with a loud snick. There are ten or eleven people crowded around the kitchen they walk into and it takes Dean by surprise.

“Where’d all these people come from?” he asks Bobby from between his teeth in a hushed tone.

Bobby shrugs as if to say found ‘em, and Dean doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s staring at each of them in turn. They look like misfits, like they probably only survived because of sheer dumb luck, but they make up the best-looking collection of human beings Dean has ever seen. If hope were to be personified, it would be by these people, Dean thinks.

Castiel nudges him surreptitiously with his elbow and Dean turns his head slightly towards him to acknowledge the touch.

“Electric,” is all Castiel says, and for a second Dean thinks he’s managed to pick up some weird slang, but then he looks up and notices lights in the ceiling glaring down at them.

“There’s power here?” he asks Bobby, who nods with a look on his face that says would you believe our luck? and Dean doesn’t; it’s giving him a bad vibe, because nowhere he’s been for a whole year has had electricity.

“Get these boys some water, Nathan,” Bobby tells a scruffy haired man, who’s probably only just said goodbye to his teenage years. Nathan turns to the cabinet behind his back, removes a pair of glasses, walks to the sink, and fills them with clean looking water.

Dean directs a finger towards where Nathan is standing and stares at Bobby pointedly.

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s water. Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with it, the whole system is clean, even the showers have fresh water.”

The knife is out of his belt before his mind can even catch up and he snatches Bobby by the wrist and digs the blade in just enough to leave a small cut behind. Bobby doesn’t scream and hiss at the touch, just raises his hand and whacks Dean on the back of the head soundly.

“It’s me, you clown!” he yells, wiping the blood off his skin and pressing his fingertips against the tiny wound.

“What was I meant to think? This whole place smells a lot like it’s been worked over by demons! What do you do when it gets dark, keep the lights on? Announce your whereabouts to any nearby demons lurking about?”

“The trees cover the light and it’s far enough away from the street that no one would notice us if they walked past.”

“Bobby, it’s as obvious as a bald man in a toupee and you aren’t even batting an eyelash? What’s going on here?”

Bobby stares at him and Dean almost waits for him to turn into Lucifer himself, but he just heaves a breath and grabs one of the tumblers from Nathan’s hand and downs the water in one, obviously just to prove to Dean that not everything is a trap, but Dean still has a hard time believing it’s not because everything is a trap nowadays. Bobby doesn’t convulse wildly or choke or even blink, so Dean thinks two can play this game and takes the remaining glass and drinks it down. It’s cool and refreshing as it rushes down his throat and it takes all his remaining power not to just stride over to the sink and drink straight from the faucet for the next few days. He looks away from Bobby feeling ashamed because Bobby is the most sceptical man he knows and if he thinks the water is okay to drink, the water will more than likely be okay to drink.

Dean feels bad that he stole the drink meant for Castiel, so he moves and refills it himself, passing the sweating glass off to him without a second glance. Castiel drains the water and sets the empty tumbler on the countertop. Bobby folds his arms and lifts an eyebrow.

“Now, unless you two want to complain more, Leo here,” he points to a man who strangely enough has two different coloured eyes, “will show you to a spare room and then you can get cleaned up because dinner is at six.”

Dean is gobsmacked, utterly gobsmacked. With a glance to his right, he finds Castiel looking rather the same and together they shuffle out of the kitchen, following Leo’s lead.

*

They get a room with a king sized bed that has a mattress that sinks about a foot lower when Dean sits on the edge of it.

“What the hell, Castiel? Tell me it’s not just me that’s going crazy.” He grabs two handfuls of his hair and looks at Castiel rather desperately.

“They’re not demons, Dean.”

“Well, how can you be so sure? What if the others are demons holding Bobby hostage? Where did they get power and water from? Why is this the only house on what seems like this whole damn planet that has those things? I just don’t get it!”

He sighs, uncurls his fingers from his hair, and flops backwards across the bed. The bed sinks even further as Castiel sits down next to his sprawled out body.

“If they were demons, we’d probably be dead by now,” Castiel rationalises and Dean hums dismissively.

“What if they’re just waiting for Lucifer to arrive and blast us to kingdom come? They’ve probably already told him and he’ll be here at six in time for goddamn dinner!”

Castiel lies flat next to him, their shoulders brushing, hands and fingers twining together without actually holding.

“Then we should make ourselves presentable and be gracious guests. We just won’t tell him about the trick up our sleeves.”

“You’re forgetting that we don’t have one, Cas.”

Castiel glances at the ticking clock above the bed’s headboard before looking back at Dean.

“Then we have forty minutes to shower and think of something.”

*

Dean’s never been one for time management, which is probably why he spends ten minutes washing himself with lemon-scented soap and another fifteen crowding Castiel against the cool white tiles, one hand quickly jerking him off, the other pressed over the warmth of his open mouth keeping him from making too much noise. Embarrassingly, it only takes him another five minutes to follow Castiel’s lead, coming against Cas’ hip with a quiet sigh, which leaves five minutes to wash again and five more to dress and make their way downstairs.

Everyone already seems to be seated around the table, but to hell with it, Dean thinks. If Luci is making a guest appearance, at least he got to enjoy one last orgasm before his death. Apparently, Castiel doesn’t exactly think the same way because he just stands there and blushes as though they already know what they’ve been up to, but if they didn’t before, they certainly do now.

They take their places side by side in the last two remaining spaces and Bobby claps his hands together loudly, making Castiel visibly jump. Dean sets his palm upon his knee under the table, squeezing gently before letting go again.

“Leo, Jenny? Would you do the honours?”

The man from before and a girl with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes stand and disappear into the kitchen. Dean waits for them to return with boiled brains and stewed eyeballs from the latest human sacrifices, but instead they start bringing in a mountain of delicious smelling food. There are at least two bowls of vegetables, three bowls of potatoes, and five plates of different meats that make Dean’s stomach rumble loudly.

He glances at Bobby who shoots him a look that says, what? didn’t trust me? and then glances at Cas, who just shrugs with one shoulder.

When everything is finally placed upon the table in front of them, Dean almost listens out for the sound of the wood groaning under the weight. He doesn’t move for a long while, until everyone starts helping themselves and then tentatively begins taking as much as he can reasonably get away with.

“You gonna say grace?” Dean teases, staring at Bobby across the table.

“Grace,” Bobby replies dryly, grabbing the bowl of mash potatoes and slopping a scoop onto his plate. Dean snorts and sticks his fork into a couple of slices of chicken, sliding them amongst his collection of peas and carrots and bread rolls.

“Where did you guys even get all of this stuff?”

“Leo happens to be rather skilled at hunting.”

“What, for tins of peas?”

That earns him a glare from Leo and he holds his hand up in mock-surrender.

“If he is, he’s better at it than you,” Castiel pipes up from his side and Bobby is the first to laugh.

“Whose side are you on?” Dean jokes. “I thought I knew you, Cas.”

As nervous as he was to begin with, the tension in his body seems to dissipate with a stomach full of chicken and a plate still laden with food. He glances at Cas, who doesn’t even notice, teeth clamped firmly around a biscuit, biting into the soft dough, and he swallows his mouthful and the last of his worry, hoping for once he isn’t wrong.

*

Curled, feeling full and sleepy, on top of the covers of the bed, Dean leans up onto one elbow at the sound of rapping on the door.

“Come in,” he shouts and Bobby steps into the room shutting the door behind him.

Castiel, who had been peering out the window, steps closer, standing at Dean’s back as though they’re part of their own team.

“You guys seen any sight of Sam?” he asks, jumping straight to the point and Dean only has enough sense to shake his head. “Thought as much,” he says softly, sounding sorry at the news. “Haven’t seen him since, well, since I last saw you two.”

Dean sits up, tiredness vanishing as dread slowly fills him.

“Speaking of,” he segues. “Last time I saw you, Cas, you had a hell of a lot more mojo.”

Dean jumps in before Castiel has to.

“Long story short: it turns out Cas’ dad is a bit of an asshole.”

The explanation seems to suit Bobby just fine as he nods his head and shrugs.

“I guess we all have that in common,” he says and Castiel actually laughs, though whether or not it’s real, Dean can’t tell, but he’s sure Castiel isn’t talented enough yet to make it sound that genuine.

“What’s your plan of action?” he asks, changing the subject and directing the attention back to Bobby.

“We’ve been tracking disturbances – ”

“Don’t tell me,” Dean interrupts. “You’ve got the internet back up and running?”

“No,” Bobby replies, making the word sound more like idiot. “We’ve got people in different areas and tin cans on strings to pass on information.”

“And by tin cans, you mean – ”

“Radios, Dean. Radios. How did you last this long without Sam?”

Dean pointedly doesn’t look at Castiel, but Bobby does it for him.

“We’ve had sightings of a few angels,” he says, speaking directly to Cas, “but none recently.”

“I don’t know their plan,” he says quietly, his disappointment clear. “They never told me its entirety.”

Bobby waves the notion away with a hand as though asking Castiel to think nothing of it.

“We have a plan of our own,” he says. “It’s not exactly refined and there’s a lot of trial and error, but it’s served us well so far. There’s been a lot of activity on the eastern border of Indiana and we’re looking for people to head out there and find out what’s going on.”

“I take it you haven’t had anyone willing to go yet then?” Dean butts in.

“Not exactly.”

“You said you have people all over, why don’t they just check it out?”

“Dean, they’re not exactly hunters. When you tell them the devil could be waiting for them, they don’t tend to rip their arms off in their hurry to volunteer.”

Dean pulls a face to say fair enough, but then the realisation dawns.

“Oh, c’mon, Bobby,” he says in annoyance. “We only just got here. Can’t we put our feet up for ten minutes before you send us off?”

Bobby pulls a face that hints he’s thinking of a few choice words to call Dean.

“Leo will go with you,” he starts as though finalising the plans before Dean’s even heard them. “He came from that area to begin with, so he’ll be your guide.”

“I have a map,” Castiel cuts in, rustling in his pocket for the folded paper.

“You’ll be co-pilot then,” Bobby jokes before continuing. “We don’t have anyone stationed in Ohio, and just the one group in Indiana, but they’re too far north to be of any help. We’ll give you a radio to keep in contact with them and they’ll be sure to let you know if they hear anything heading your way. Any questions?”

“Do we get a say in this?”

“No. Any other questions?”

Dean sighs and shakes his head.

“Good. You’ll head out tomorrow morning; it’s best to travel during the day. We’ve got weapons, though it seems like you’re not exactly unarmed with Ruby’s knife, but you’re free to help yourselves. Rest up boys; you’ve got a hell of a walk ahead of you.”

Dean waits until the door is almost closed behind Bobby’s back before he speaks.

“It’s good to see you, Bobby.”

“Go to sleep, idjit,” is the only response he gets.

*

Being so close to the Ohio border, they cross it by eleven in the morning, a shotgun slung over each of their backs and their footsteps strong and steady.

“So what do you do, Leo, in between hunting chickens and surviving the apocalypse?”

“I used to work as an engineer for IBM,” he says, “so I’ve been working on setting up better radio communication between our groups and I actually had a go at rewiring the electricity in the house we were at.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, we had lights, didn’t we?”

Dean doesn’t say anything to him after that, his nose rubbed sore from Leo’s spiky personality.

“How long did Bobby say it would take?” he asks Castiel, walking closer to him and nudging him with his shoulder.

“He didn’t,” he replies and Dean sighs heavily.

“Would it have killed you to make a car?”

He pointedly looks over at Leo and the glare he gets in return sends a trill of amusement up his spine. He will admit he’s looking forward to the rest of the trip, if only to see how long the new boy lasts before snapping and blowing Dean’s head off with a shotgun shell meant for someone on the other side of the war.

*

The nights pass with minimal disturbances from one or two wandering demons; they’re quick and efficient and Leo is surprisingly agile when he needs to be. The radio buzzes each morning, recounting the estimated whereabouts of other possessed bodies and it’s easy to avoid the full brunt of the fight by sticking to back roads and staying as quiet as possible.

Funnily enough, it’s an accident when they find Lucifer.

According to a small metal sign that’s blackened on the edges and isn’t even standing upright anymore, they’re in Clayton, Ohio, elevation 1,000 feet, population 14,361, though Dean doubts that. If they’re lucky, there’ll be a thousand people left, though a majority of that will probably have already fled.

They break into an abandoned elementary school to stay in for the night, but while clearing each classroom, making sure no demons are lurking in the coat racks or paper cupboards, they hear voices.

“Stay here,” he whispers to Leo, who doesn’t even put up a fight. “If it takes a turn for the worse, feel free to jump in and save us later.”

With guns drawn, more for the front of safety than anything, he and Castiel edge down the hallway towards the gym, where the noises came from. There are small windows in the doors, which allow them to look into the room without actually going in, however, in doing so, they manage to accidentally draw attention to themselves, and the voices pick up.

Before they can move out of the way, the doors fly open; Dean’s foot manages to stop the one in front of him, but other door smacks Castiel dead in the face, a painful cracking noise ringing out as the wood collides with his nose. Blood begins to drip down over Castiel’s lips and Dean’s pretty sure that at least one part of his face is broken.

Dean fires blindly at the first sight of black eyes, but the bullets do nothing other than anger the demons. They drag Dean and a bleeding Castiel through the doors, into the gym and Dean stumbles, his brain momentarily forgetting how to work his legs, as he catches sight of a man standing across the room from them.

“Sammy?” he yells, struggling against the tight grip on his arm. “That you?”

Sam responds with a small, sad smile.

“I’m sorry, Dean, it’s not, but he does say hi.”

Dean feels nauseous.

“Lucifer,” he states, swallowing more than once to keep the bile from escaping his throat.

Lucifer spreads his hands out, as if to say ta da!

“In the flesh. Well, actually, in Sam’s flesh, but you get the idea.”

“You son of a bitch! What did you do to Sam?”

Lucifer makes an exaggerated shocked expression, mocking Dean.

“Do? I didn’t do anything. Sam finally said yes, though, if I’m truthful, I did do a bit of coercing. I might have said that I’d send you back to hell for the rest of eternity if he didn’t, and because he already knew the punch line, what with you sharing some lovely stories about your previous vacation there, he gave in rather easily.”

Dean tries his best to ignore the sting of his words, tugging against the hold on his arms.

“Sam, if you can hear me: I’m gonna get him out of you, whether he wants to leave or not!”

Lucifer sighs and looks towards his minions.

“Let’s take them somewhere quieter. The echo in here is giving me a headache.”

Despite how much he fights, Dean still gets dragged through the hallways, ending up in one of the back classrooms, where the demons have already seemed to set up camp; there are a few bodies piled in the corner that Dean tries his best not to look at.

“Now,” Lucifer says, waving his hand and curling a tight, invisible band around their arms, pinning them to their sides. “Have a seat.”

Dean’s body does as it’s told without his command and he sits on a chair meant for a child under ten, his knees ending up feeling like they’re somewhere around his ears. He glances quickly towards Castiel, catching sight of movement beyond the door and he hopes like hell it’s Leo with a plan.

“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” Lucifer asks with a tilt of his head.

“I’ve seen better,” Dean replies, trying his best not to think about how long it will take to fix what Lucifer has destroyed.

“It’s taken longer than I expected, but the result has still been the same. I will admit that I love the smell of chaos in the morning. There’s something about it that just really gets my blood pumping.”

“Maybe we should leave you two alone.”

“I could say the same for you boys. Ah, yes, I’ve heard all about your little change Castiel. How the mighty have fallen. I suppose he never told you the truth,” he says looking at Dean, who can’t bring himself to shake his head. “Cassie here fell for l-o-v-e. You see, when you’re given a ward, you must do as expected of you, but nothing more, and fraternisation is a big no-no. I guess Cas thought he could get away with it, but it sounds like someone let the word out and he got a sharp slap on the wrist, though I suppose it was a little more than a slap. What’s it like being one of those silly mortals you seem to love so much?”

“I am happy,” Castiel says defiantly, but Dean doesn’t look over, knowing the expression on Castiel’s face will give away the lie too easily. Lucifer laughs and the anger courses through Dean.

“Shut your trap,” he tells him, his expression darkening, which earns him a flick of Lucifer’s wrist and the pain of a cut slicing its way up the side of his face. He grits his teeth and ignores the blood tickling his chin as it drips down into his lap. “Perhaps you should – ”

Dean is saved from getting himself into deeper trouble as a knife soars through the air, lodging itself into the chest of the demon on Lucifer’s right; the demon tumbles to the floor and twitches, before there’s the rapport of a gun and holes scatter about Sam’s chest before Dean can even yell.

“Stop!” he cries, turning his neck and finding Leo in the doorway, shotgun raised and he apparently has the good graces to look abashed.

“If you kill the host, won’t it get rid of them?”

“Does it look like that works? You just shot my brother, you stupid son of a bitch!”

Leo sags, lowering the gun and taking a step back, which is all Lucifer allows him before he waves his hand and sends a mass of tables and chairs his way. He flies back, hitting the wall before falling into a pile of furniture and he doesn’t move at all; it doesn’t look good and Dean will be surprised if he makes it out alive.

“Now, where was I?” Lucifer starts, brushing a hand over his chest, pulling out shards of buckshot shells before healing the wounds. “What?” he asks Dean, who stares incredulously. “What can I hold over you if Sam is dead?”

Dean struggles against the bonds around him once more as Lucifer chuckles and he swears loudly.

“Oh right: Cas, how’s the mortality working out for you? How easy you’ll be to break when I’m done here.”

“Over my dead body,” Dean snaps and Lucifer raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, I suppose it probably will be.”

He raises a hand as though to click his fingers and turn Dean into a puddle of nothing, but the demon on his left suddenly drops to the ground and doesn’t move. Lucifer glances around confused, even as another demon falls and remains still on the floor. One by one, they seem to collapse around the room with no sign of what’s causing it.

“Dean, be a dear and tell whoever’s killing my soldiers to stop, or else Sam will find himself splattered up all four of these walls.”

“As much as I want to, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, I thought – ”

With a cough, Leo’s body in the corner shifts and begins to shove tables and chairs off of him.

“Jesus Christ,” Leo says, bringing a hand up to his forehead. “Do you have any idea how crazy I’ve gone having to put up with you two idiots for so long? And now I get smacked around the head with half a classroom for all of my hard effort? Someone needs to learn better manners, especially you, Luci.”

The rest of Lucifer’s demons drop to the floor with a snap of Leo’s fingers and Dean is one hundred percent confused. He’s pretty sure Leo has a death wish, but even as he stares at him, his form seems to shift. He tries his best to figure everything out, but his eyes widen in realisation as he recognises who’s in front of him.

“Gabriel?” he asks incredulously.

“I take small comfort in that fact that you finally know who I am. It usually takes you a while, so I’m not surprised.”

Dean watches, completely stunned, as Gabriel move closer towards Lucifer, and he can’t help it as his mouth falls opens.

“Don’t hurt Sam,” he says and both Lucifer and Gabriel scoff, as though a part of their own team.

“It all depends on what my brother decides to do,” Lucifer answers, raising a hand in warning.

Gabriel freezes in place, near enough to Dean that Gabriel is able to reach across the space and hook his fingers under the string of his necklace. With a tug, he snaps it, letting it fall into his palm, while Dean watches dumfounded. Before Dean can completely cuss him out, he raises one finger to signal for silence and looks vaguely pleased when he’s obeyed.

“Do you know what you have here, Dean?” he asks and all Dean can do is shake his head. “This is something dear old Luci hasn’t seen for a long, long time.”

Without another word, he tosses it towards Lucifer, who catches it with one hand and stares hard at the tiny figurine, Sam’s face morphed into an expression of genuine intrigue.

“This is just a sentimental knick-knack, brother. It seems you are losing your touch.”

Gabriel hums almost as though he agrees, but then he reaches into his pocket and tosses two more stone necklaces towards Lucifer.

“Maybe the others will jog your memory.”

Lucifer drops them all as though burned at the contact and it takes Dean a moment to realise, but Lucifer begins to glow softly around the edges, as though the seams of his true body are slowly unravelling, leaving him struggling to remain inside the vessel.

“Is this how it must be?” Lucifer asks, stumbling backwards a few steps. “Even you are turning against me?”

“I wasn’t going to get involved, but you’ve become the big kid in the playground who sits at the top of the slide and never goes down it. How can I enjoy myself when you’re running around destroying the only things I come to earth for?”

“How did you find them?”

“It’s amazing what you come across when the whole world’s falling to pieces. You should learn to hide them better next time.”

Dean can’t keep the confusion from his face and it’s when Gabriel looks over his shoulder that he seems to notice it.

“Old Luci here used to walk among rocks like these ones, but hell if they aren’t his Achilles heel now. They’re the Stones of Fire – God made them, made a whole mountain of them, and they turned out to be the only things that could cast Lucifer from Heaven when he decided to start his own band. They took a while to find, and as much as I loathe to admit it, it’s probably all because of your necklace that we’re able to do this.”

Gabriel pauses before glancing over at Dean.

“It’s amazing what kids’ll buy if you tell them something is the perfect gift for a loved one. Sam bought that necklace off me for three dollars and a packet of pop rocks because that’s all he had in his pockets. You’d have thought he’d just bought a sports car from the smile on his face as he walked away, but I guess he was just a simple child. Some things never change, right Samuel?”

Lucifer practically snarls in response and the ground below Lucifer’s feet begins to crack, the glowing around his shoes becoming even brighter, to the point where Dean can’t stand to look, his eyes itching uncomfortably.

“Your stones won’t hold me forever,” Lucifer warns, even as Gabriel laughs.

“I think they might,” he says, a smirk falling onto his lips. “My stones are huge.”

Dean only has time to worry about Sam for a second before a ball of blinding light leaves his brother’s body and disappears into the crack in the floor, falling from sight until the ground closes itself back up and Sam crumples bonelessly into a heap.

The tight bond around Dean’s body falls away and his legs barely hold his weight as he stands and moves to Sam’s side, kneeling and pressing two fingers to his throat. He can feel a pulse, but it’s faint and irregular and he knows something’s wrong.

“Gabe, you gotta help him,” he shouts over his shoulder, finding Gabriel nonchalantly brushing bits of ceiling off his shoulder. “Do your mojo stuff and fix what’s wrong.”

Gabriel clicks his tongue and folds his arms.

“What do I get out of it?”

“I won’t kick your ass!” Dean yells, anger flaring. Gabriel throws his head back and laughs loudly, the sound eventually turning into intermittent chuckles.

“That’s probably the best thing I’ve heard since the last millennium. No really, give me one good reason. There’d be a lot less trouble if I just let him go now.”

“Yeah, but that’ll change when the demons start searching for you. We can get them off your back. You just need to help him.”

“You’re really that desperate?”

Dean stares at him, eyes steady, emotions bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin.  
“Unlike you, I don’t hate my family.”

“I don’t hate anyone, except maybe Mel Gibson and some guy from the Middle Ages that still owes me for a bet we made.”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly the best family reunion.”

“Isn’t that the way they always go? Someone gets on someone else’s nerves, things are said, and everyone goes home angry and hoping there isn’t another get-together for another year or two.”

“Yeah, well Sam’s all I’ve got these days. We drive each other batshit, but we still stay together because that’s what family does. We forgive and forget, at least until the following day.”

Gabriel sighs and glances over Dean’s shoulder at Castiel.

“Gabriel,” Dean says quietly, getting his attention again. “Please.”

“You’re such a whiny asshole,” he complains, finally stepping forward. “You’re as bad as Michael.”

In the blink of an eye, he vanishes out of sight with Sam, leaving Dean crouched over thin air.

“Will he actually try to save him?” he asks Castiel, standing once more.

“My brother can be a pain, but he still keeps to his word. He is an angel after all.”

He sighs and claps Castiel lightly on the shoulder, assessing the damage of the classroom. There are broken windows and bits of chalkboard everywhere, but in lieu of what happened, it’s not as bad as it could be. There’s no movement from the bodies littered about and Dean realises there’s no chance for those used as vessels. He steps closer to one man, who has a small knife lodged in his chest, and tugs it free. Wiping the blood off on the man’s slacks, he sees that there’s a small devil’s trap engraved onto the blade. Just before he can think to move, a plume of dark smoke bellows out of the man’s mouth, the demon inside suddenly fleeing after being freed; he can’t do anything other than watch as it disappears from sight out of one of the doors hanging off its hinges.

“It probably won’t wait around long, what with Lucifer going back home and all.”

Castiel nods and starts picking his way through the debris, heading in the opposite direction, his pace slow and steady as though waiting for Dean to catch up. They walk side by side through the corridors, until finally stepping outside through the last remaining fire exit, stones shifting under their feet.

“I guess we should start heading back,” Dean says walking ahead, fumbling in his pocket for the radio. “I’ll let them know what’s happened.”

He turns, waiting for Castiel’s response, but when he looks behind, there’s no one there, just a small dust-devil making its way across the old parking lot.

“Cas?”

He walks back to the entranceway, peering inside the building once more, but there’s nothing.

“Castiel?”

He steps outside, dark clouds rolling overhead, the distant rumble of thunder sounding loud in the silence. Castiel has gone and for once in his life, Dean will admit that he’s worried.

*

He takes shelter in a nearby house when the rain starts pouring, the cool wind picking up and chilling him to the bones. He quickly starts a fire and moves about, closing the curtains and blocking as much light from escaping as possible, before huddling down in front of it, warming his hands. When he’s as dry as he’ll get, he goes to the kitchen, finding beef jerky and few bottle of beers to tide him over as he sits at the table and stares out the window overlooking the road, waiting for Castiel to come strolling past. He doesn’t hold his breath, though.

He falls asleep just after the sky starts bleeding red into morning and wakes with a bottle still clenched in his fist and his forehead pressed against the tabletop. He mumbles nonsense, keeping his eyes closed as he raises his head and holds onto the last few dregs of sleep. His mouth feel completely dry, probably from catching flies all night, and he smacks his lips.

“Water?” A voice in front of him asks and he jumps, sitting up and finding Castiel seated opposite, a glass in his hand. He takes it without thinking, drinking all of it before finally drawing in a breath.

“Where did you go?” he asks. “I waited here all night for you.”

With just a point of his finger, Dean’s glass refills itself and Dean can’t help but gape at the sight.

“Holy shit,” he says before meeting Castiel’s eyes. “You better start talking.”

“There was a retrial,” he murmurs as though it explains everything, but he lowers his gaze to his hands and continues. “Apparently, we are to be commended for remaining a part of the resistance for so long.”

“They finally pulled their heads out of their asses, you mean?”

Castiel doesn’t smile, but he nods.

“It also seems as though Gabriel might have put in a good word.”

“Gabriel? Why?”

“It is only a guess, but I suspect he is trying to prove you wrong. I am his brother after all.”

“Did you see Sam?”

“No,” Castiel replies gently, “but I heard he will return soon. He is alive, but needs time to heal completely.”

The sigh of relief that Dean lets out make him feel as though he’s deflating, the stress and tension finally leaving his body. He tips his head back briefly before glances back across at Castiel.

“So you got everything back? Your mojo and your wings?” Castiel nods slowly, as though knowing Dean has more to say. “Have you gone back to being the angel with morals now too? Is this going to get awkward?”

Castiel tilts his head and before Dean can blink, he finds himself out of his chair and pressed against the kitchen counter, the marble top digging into his back as Castiel leans into him, mouth harsh against his own. He parts his lips around a gasp that never makes a sound as Castiel pushes through it with his tongue, fingers biting into Dean’s hips as he holds him in place. Dean hums his relief against Castiel’s lips and brings a hand up to the back of Castiel’s head, holding him in place as he eventually catches up, their mouths falling into rhythm. The kiss slows, settling into a steady, lazy pace as Dean slides his palms to Castiel’s shoulders and holds on, gently nipping at his bottom lip before finally pulling away.

“Right. Good. Glad that’s settled,” Dean says sounding dazed even to his own ears. However, it seems Castiel isn’t entirely through with him yet. In an instant, Dean finds himself falling backwards, landing on a soft mattress before realising they’re in the upstairs bedroom, Castiel sliding into his lap easily. With a strange tug of Castiel’s lips like a half-smile, their clothing vanishes and appears raining down into a heap across the room.

“That’s not exactly angelic,” he teases and Castiel stares down at him.

“Did you want it to be?”

Dean curls a hand around the back of Castiel’s head and pulls him down, their lips brushing gently together.

“No,” he murmurs, “it’s perfectly fine with me. Just don’t let your dad find out.”

*

Lying sprawled out across more than half of the bed, breathing hard, Dean glances over at Castiel, who’s drawn the sheets up to his chin, arms and legs in check and hardly taking up any space at all.

“Did it feel different with your powers back?” he asks; Castiel flushes and Dean knows the red tinge trails down his neck and all the way down his chest – he’s traced it with his mouth, throwing fuel onto the fire and not caring one bit.

“It was quicker,” is all he mumbles and Dean scoffs.

“It’s your own fault for cheating and zapping our clothes off. That would have added at least ten minutes otherwise.”

Castiel pulls a face that might well be a smirk and Dean nudges him with his elbow.

“I can’t believe you. You’ve been hanging out with Gabriel for far too long.”

He rolls over, heedless of the noise Castiel lets out, and hovers his mouth over Castiel’s, teasing with barely-there brushes of his lips. Eventually, Castiel leans up and ends the torment himself as Dean laughs into his mouth, eyes crinkling and hands soft against Castiel’s skin. He kisses him softly, wanting nothing more than to spend the day dozing and testing Castiel’s new limits, but he knows they have more pressing issues to attend to.

“We need to get back to Bobby,” he says, regret clear in his voice, but Castiel just tilts his head in thought.

“Would you like to spend ten minutes dressing, or would you like me to do that for you?”

Dean laughs again, pressing his face into the crook of Castiel’s neck before biting the skin under his mouth sharply. Castiel startles at the touch, but doesn’t try to hold Dean down as he rolls over and leaves Castiel under the covers, moving towards their clothes and starting to separate them into two piles: one for him and one for Cas.

He dresses slowly and doesn’t know if Castiel does the same without using his powers to be more like him, or remind him that he cares enough to remain unchanged. Dean eventually turns and straightens the collar of Castiel’s trenchcoat, despite it being perfectly folded, before running his palms flat down Castiel’s chest.

“We should probably find the others so they don’t think we’ve died,” he says and Castiel hums in agreement and picks a thread off Dean’s shoulder before wrapping a hand around his upper arm and transporting them out of Ohio.

*

It takes entirely too long to explain everything to Bobby, but he sits and listens, a glass of half-drunk whiskey clasped firmly in one hand.

“So now what?” he asks when Dean falls silent and Castiel speaks up before he can respond.

“The remaining angels are planning a recovery method to return the world to how it was, but it may take them some time to set everything up – perhaps not until the end of the week.”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise and he can’t help but snort at Castiel’s idea of “taking some time”.

“What is it? A system reboot of the planet?” Bobby jokes and Dean laughs, but Castiel just looks confused.

“He’s still not savvy with the lingo,” Dean teases, “but he’ll get there eventually after we’re through with him.”

Dean looks up and catches Castiel’s eye, winking in amusement, while Bobby downs the rest of his drink.

“Shall we place bets on how late Sam will be to the party?”

*

Gabriel might well appear with the blasting fanfare of trumpets for all the noise he makes when he eventually shows up three days later. Dean and Castiel are in the garden digging up vegetables when it sounds as though half the house has collapsed into ruin. They turn and surprisingly still find it standing behind them and it’s with a quiet creak that Sam strolls through the backdoor as though he’s never been gone.

Dean brushes his muddy hands off on his jeans and practically jogs towards him in his haste. He wraps his arms around Sam’s back, patting firmly as he squeezes him tightly.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” he says, voice muffled by Sam’s shoulder, and Sam just brings his own hands up to return the hug.

“You didn’t do a bad job,” he jokes, “but you could have cleaned up a little before I got back.”

“We’re getting there, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam replies, holding him tighter for just a second before letting him go.

Castiel finally reaches their side and he apparently doesn’t get a choice in the matter as Sam tugs him into a hug of his own, Castiel’s hands hanging awkwardly at his sides before Sam finally steps away.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hey, Cas; hope this ape hasn’t been causing too much trouble.”

Sam smiles widely at them, obviously wanting to say something more, but seeming to hold back for their benefit.

“How much do you remember?” Dean asks carefully.

“Most of it, and what I didn’t know, Gabriel filled me in.”

“And?”

“And? You guys kicked ass and took names! Gabe wasn’t at all modest, though, and he adamantly believes it was all his work, but I trust him as far as I can throw him.”

Dean shrugs and glances over at Castiel.

“He saved our asses, so we owe him that much.”

“Whose asses and what’s owed?” comes a voice from behind and Gabriel joins their cluster, slapping Castiel on the back loudly. “Hey little bro, caught any diseases off this mutt yet?” he asks, thumbing in Dean’s direction.

Castiel blushes and Dean pointedly doesn’t look at Sam, though if he’s told the truth, he should already know everything anyway.

“Took your time getting back here,” Dean says instead, hoping to shift the conversation.

“I kind of have my own fanclub upstairs now, so forgive me if I’ve been a little busy.”

“Don’t worry, we filled everyone else in on what happened and who you are. Did Bobby know it was you from the start?” Dean asks, genuinely curious.

“I never told him, but he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you,” which is apparently Gabriel’s roundabout way of saying “yes”. “Now, I’ve done what you asked and there’s one hell of party waiting for me, so if you don’t mind.”

He vanishes with the soft noise of wings, leaving only the three of them behind.

“Speaking of which,” Dean starts. “Bobby just went out to find a few tins of food, but he should be back soon. I suggest a feast and enough alcohol to stun a small horse, or maybe even a big one.”

Sam snorts quietly as they begin to make their way back towards the house.

“Nothing ever changes for you, does it?”

“Not if I can help it,” he laughs, knocking Sam upside the head lightly at the same time he carefully bumps Castiel’s shoulder. The door bangs shut behind them and Dean’s never felt so at home.

FIN


End file.
